Change of Key
by Ace of Gallifrey
Summary: A retelling of the Phantom's tale. What if Gustave Daae had lived, and Christine had never come to the Opera Populaire? What if Erik bestowed his gift of music on another girl? Think you know POTO? Think again...  E/M, 2004 film.
1. Prologue

**Title-** Change of Key  
**Characters/Pairings-** Erik/Meg, Christine/Raoul, everybody else puts in their necessary appearances  
**Rating-** K+ for now, might go up to T later  
**Summary-** What if Christine had never come to the Opera Populaire? What if Erik bestowed his gift of music on Meg, instead? The tale of the Phantom, retold… E/M, 2004 film.

**A/N-** Because I'm sure many of you won't want to read my current E/M WIP because it's an LND story and opinions on Love Never Dies are mixed at best, I decided to give those of you who follow my Phantom stories a little teaser. Allow me to make it plain that I will _not_ be posting the rest of this until the entire story is complete, but I thought it might be nice to give you all a taste of what's to come, since I've been promising you this story for weeks now. (Just for the record, I'm most of the way through the first act, and I expect the second act to fly by pretty quickly once I get there, so it shouldn't be _too_ long.)

_

* * *

Prologue  
__April 2, 1860, Paris_

The chapel in the lower levels of the Opera Populaire's dormitory wing was rarely occupied. Show-folk are busy people, and the only prayers they have time to say are whispered under their breath in the moments before the curtain rises each night. Nevertheless, there was someone in the chapel on that particular night.

A little girl, at most seven years of age, knelt before the array of candles placed there in memory of the dead. Her hands were folded, and her golden head was bowed. She wore practice garb of the youngest members of the Opera Populaire's ballet troupe, and on her feet were the smallest pair of pink ballet slippers.

"Please say hello to Julien for me, and tell him that I miss him terribly," she said softly. "And please watch over Papa, Jesus. Maman says he is very sad, and I think he needs someone to care for him. Thank you, amen." She fumblingly made the sign of the cross with her tiny hands, then softly began to sing an old hymn her mother had taught her.

_"Jesu, dúlcis memória,  
__Dans véra córdis gáudia:  
__Sed super mel et ómnia  
__Ejus dúlcis præséntia."_

The Latin felt strange in her mouth, and she couldn't remember any more of the words anyway, so she just sang nonsense after the first verse. However, her clear little voice had already reached other ears.

In the shadows behind a false wall, a young man paused in his travels through the opera house, to watch her as she prayed and listen as she sang. For many years now, he had been searching for the perfect voice to perform the music he wrote, but all in vain. This girl was not quite the voice he was looking for, either, but her tone was sweet even for a child's voice and he could imagine what she might sound like if only someone would take the time to teach her. He could hear it in his mind, a voice like a crystal bell ringing out in the halls of the greatest opera houses in the world… Not the voice for his music (he was beginning to fear that such a voice did not exist), but there was so much potential, potential that he knew would be wasted. He knew who the girl was: the young daughter of his former friend. She was destined for the life of a ballerina, a chorus girl who at the very best would be tossed bit parts if she were lucky and dedicated. No one would ever take the time to teach her, to give any kind of shape to that sweet voice. How could he let all that potential be lost?

"Open your mouth more," he whispered through the cracks in the stonework.

The fair head came up, and she looked around with huge amber eyes. "Hello?" she whispered. "Who are you?"

Who was he, indeed? How best to answer her? He thought of the fresco on the other side of the wall he hid behind, the archangel Raphael bestowing his benevolence, and inspiration came. "I am the angel of music," he said.

She cocked her head to one side, looking almost right at him. "I don't believe you. Maman said angels don't speak to us, they only watch," she said, obviously thinking hard.

"Perhaps your mother is wrong," he said, amused. That did sound like something Antoinette would say.

She shook her head, little blonde curls bouncing. "My Maman is never wrong," she informed him. Suddenly, she seemed to think of something. "Are you the one everyone is talking about? The Opera Ghost?"

"I suppose I am," he said, amused. Impressed by her deduction, he let a little smile slip onto his face. Yes, she had certainly inherited her mother's mind! "But I am also the angel of music, and I am here to teach you to sing."

For the first time since he had spoken, her expression broke into a smile. "You mean the way Mademoiselle Emelie does?" she asked, naming the charming Finnish soprano who was the latest diva at the Opera Populaire.

"If you wish," he said, and the little girl clapped her hands excitedly. "But it will take a long time, and it will be very hard work," he cautioned her.

She nodded. "I'm a very hard worker," she said eagerly.

Yes, he suspected she would be, with a mother like hers. She couldn't possibly be anything _but_ dedicated! "Very well then," he said. "Let us begin. Stand up straight…"


	2. Chapter One

**A/N- **Warning: my entire knowledge of ballet comes from the four years of ballet training I had when I was much younger. If I have massively misused any terms and anyone out there knows enough about ballet to catch my mistakes… I apologize. I tried to do my research, but of course it still probably isn't perfect.

* * *

_Chapter One  
__August 5, 1870_

The dressing rooms allotted to the Opera Populaire's ballet were all but deserted, save for a pair of girls giggling at the back.

The two friends were an amusing contrast. Simone was lanky with a slim, willowy figure and straight, dark hair that cascaded down her back unchecked. Her emerald eyes glittered with mischief and her olive skin made her dark good looks even more striking. She was, if the rumors were to be believed, the Opera Populaire's own personal tart (Meg did not believe the rumors… at least, not _all _of them). She had a personality as tall as she was, and had a penchant for daywear that did not entirely preserve her modesty.

Meg, on the other hand, was utterly petite, but with a curvy figure that earned her approving stares from men and extra work as a dancer to learn to compensate for it. Her wavy blonde hair was gathered neatly at the nape of her neck by a gold ribbon, making her look younger than she really was, though in fact she was the older of the two. She was known for her perfectionist habits, sympathetic ear and ability to fade into her colorful best friend's background with ease.

"Come on, we're already late!" she pleaded, half-laughing as she tugged on Simone's arm, trying to drag her out of the dressing room.

"You could have gone without me," Simone pointed out, applying a last few dabs of turquoise eye pencil, then sitting back to study the effect.

Meg shook her head, golden locks tumbling around her shoulders. "And leave you alone when you walk in late? You're one caper away from being out on the street as it is… at least with me there, Madame won't be too harsh on you." She referred to her mother, of course, but naming her as such was a habit she had long since fallen out of, at least in public.

"Why do you think I keep you around?" Simone asked, flashing her a teasing smirk. Then she grabbed Meg's hand, leapt to her feet, and whirled out of the changing room, dragging her smaller friend behind her. They hurtled down the stairs and slowed only in time to appear tranquil when they came into view of the rest of the girls warming up at the barre.

Antoinette Giry cast her eye over the pair of them, frowning slightly. "You're late, Meg," she said. The little ballerina glanced down, avoiding her mother's searching gray eyes.

* * *

"Rehearsals, as you can see, are under way for a new production of Charlemeau's _Hannibal_," the manager of the Opera Populaire explained, leading two well-dressed gentlemen across the stage, much to the chagrin of Monsieur Reyer.

"Monsieur LeFevre!" the conductor cried in protest.

The thickset man raised his hand in placation. "Monsieur Reyer, Madame Giry, ladies and gentlemen, please. If I could have your attention, thank you." Once the crowd on stage had quieted to a more acceptable level, he smiled benevolently at them. "As you know, for some weeks there have been rumors of my imminent retirement." Suddenly, the polite hush transformed into absolute dead silence as every person in earshot began listening intently, as LeFevre continued: "I can now tell you that these are all true, and it is my great pleasure to introduce you to the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire, Monsieur Richard Firmin and Monsieur Gilles Andre."

Welcoming applause spread through the chorus and the stagehands, though Meg, who had just emerged from the wings with Simone just behind, noticed that Carlotta Giudicelli, the revered prima donna, looked more shrewish than ever.

"I'm sure you've heard of their recent fortune amassed in the junk business," LeFevre added.

"Scrap metal, actually," Andre retorted, obviously offended.

Whispers broke out amongst the older chorus girls, and Simone leaned in close to Meg's ear to hiss, "They must be rich!" Meg rolled her eyes. Her friend was always on the lookout for some wealthy gentleman who could make her comfortable (with or without a wedding band).

"And we are deeply honored to introduce our new patron, the Vicomte de Chagny!" Firmin announced. At this, audible gasps could actually be heard. The Chagny family was one of the wealthiest in Paris, and to have acquired the Vicomte as the patron was an incredible coup for the Populaire. Meg watched with interest as he was presented to Carlotta and her not-so-secret lover, the renowned tenor Ubaldo Pianji.

"I believe I am keeping you from your rehearsal," Raoul de Chagny said politely after introductions were finished. "My fiancée and I will be here this evening to share your great triumph. My apologies, monsieur," he said with a nod to Reyer.

Rehearsal resumed as the young man made his way out of the theatre, and Meg's attention was rapidly diverted as the first-act ballet commenced. _Devant, then back to first, a chaînés to the right and then circle back into a gran fouetté… _The movement consumed her mind; conscious thought retreating as she submitted to the power of the music, moving easily without thought to achieve that perfect balance.

She heard her own name, and realized her mother had pointed her out to the new managers, but did not look up to see what was going on. If it were important, she would find out once the dance was through.

The trumpet cue rang out, and she slipped quickly back to her spot in the circling crowd around Carlotta who, Meg noticed, was not looking particularly happy. As the music came to its climax, she lifted up en pointe, turning dramatically in perfect time to the rest of the ballet scattered across the stage, before dropping to her knees, arms upraised for the last two bars.

Reyer lowered his baton, and the perfect formation they had built collapsed, everyone immediately going about their business and stagehands flooding the boards to retrieve the elephant.

"The Vicomte is very excited about tonight's gala," Andre was saying.

"Alors, alors, alors!" Carlotta cried, storming up to LeFevre. "I hope he is as excited about dancing girls as your new managers, because I will not be singing!" She whirled around and stomped away. "Andiamo, tutti!" she cried to her court of fools.

Meg couldn't help but smile. Carlotta frequently threw these kinds of temper tantrums. "Oh, whatever shall we do?" she whispered sarcastically to Simone, who had found her side once more.

The taller girl picked up the line. "A gala without La Carlotta is hardly a gala at all!" she wailed in mock-horror.

Meanwhile, Andre and Firmin appeared to have convinced the Italian diva to stay (not that anyone was surprised, as Carlotta only ever used her threats of departure to have her way). The redhead stepped up to the front of the stage, shouting recriminations at anyone who hadn't fallen silent upon her command.

As the piano sounded the opening notes of the act three aria, Meg winced in painful anticipation. Throughout the rehearsals, it had been absolutely _painful_ to hear Carlotta's rendition of _Think of Me_. She had been a great singer once, but Meg knew she was a perfect example of a voice that had been pushed too far in her halcyon days and was now suffering the consequences. Her vibrato was shaky at best, and the coloratura skill which had earned her notoriety was all but gone. Usually it was tolerable, and LeFevre had overlooked it for the sake of the famous name, but the peculiar intervals of this particular aria showed off her vocal weaknesses quite clearly.

It seemed that she was not the only one who deemed Carlotta's rendition intolerable, because only moments into the song, a backdrop came crashing down from above, striking the soprano to the ground. Meg let out a shriek of surprise and jumped back as the set piece tumbled.

The stage devolved into a flurry of activity as dozens of people rushed to help Carlotta to her feet, and although the managers tried to comfort her, the prima donna refused to be appeased, and suddenly what she had threatened to do for years was actually coming true. La Carlotta really was walking out.

"Gentlemen, good luck. If you need me, I shall be in Australia," LeFevre informed the flustered pair with a gleeful look in his eyes.

A panicked-looking Andre turned to Reyer. "S-signora Giudicelli… she will be coming back?" he stuttered.

The overtaxed conductor shrugged.

"You think so, Monsieur?" Antoinette Giry said, a knowing smirk firmly in place. "I have a message, sir, from the Opera Ghost." This news was met with very little pleasure from the managers, but Antoinette read the letter aloud anyway, with frequent punctuations of disapproval from said managers. "He welcomes you to his opera house and commands that you continue to leave Box Five empty for his use, and reminds you that his salary is due."

"His salary?" Firmin exclaimed, outraged.

Antoinette shrugged nonchalantly, obviously enjoying giving the two newcomers their trial-by-fire baptism in the ways of the Opera Populaire. "Monsieur LeFevre used to give him twenty thousand francs a month."

"Twenty thousand francs?" he gasped.

"Perhaps you can afford more, with the Vicomte as your patron," Antoinette said dryly.

Meg smirked, her expression mirroring the look on her mother's face. Her so-called angel of music _already_ extorted more money from the managers in a month than the entire ballet combined made in a whole year. It was an obscene salary, and she had asked more than once what he did with it all, though he failed spectacularly to give her a satisfactory answer.

The managers, however, seemed less gleeful about the whole thing. "Yes, I _had_ hoped to make that announcement public tonight when the Vicomte was to join us for the gala, but obviously we shall now have to cancel, as it appears we have lost our star!" Firmin said, tearing the Opera Ghost's note to shreds.

"But surely there must be an understudy!" Andre cried.

"Understudy? There is no understudy for La Carlotta!" Reyer shouted in exasperation.

"A full house, Andre! We shall have to refund a full house!" Firmin said, sounding a bit desperate.

"What else can we do?" the shorter man complained bitterly.

Meg hesitated. What she was thinking was probably a very bad idea. Elissa was a soprano's role, and she was a mezzo, having never quite been able to develop the farthest upper limits of the range. Still, she had a long range for a mezzo-soprano, and Elissa was a fairly centered part, nothing too extreme, so it would be manageable. Thinking back, she couldn't recall the soprano line reaching higher than a C above the staff. That was quite within her range. On the other hand, she hadn't studied the role… well, not officially, anyway. She knew every line by heart, simply by benefit of being present at every rehearsal, even those for which the ballet was not required, but there was a difference between learning the part and owning it. All told, the plan of action that sprang to her mind was impossible at best. Nevertheless…

"Excuse me, Monsieur Firmin? Monsieur Andre?" she spoke up nervously. The pair of distraught moguls turned to her. "I… I could sing the role tonight, Messieurs. Just to fill in, I mean."

Simone let out a soft gasp in her ear. "What are you _doing_?" she hissed. Meg quietly stepped on her foot as the managers' faces turned to expressions of incredulity.

"You?" Andre asked. "Don't be ridiculous!"

She straightened her spine, reacting instinctively to the condescension in his voice. "I have the training," she said firmly. "At least let me try, Messieurs. If you don't like what I do, then you can go ahead and cancel the gala."

Meg could see her choice of words had immediate effect. The managers squirmed for a moment, glancing at each other uncomfortably. Finally, Firmin sighed. "Alright then, go on, go on. Let's hear you."

Monsieur Reyer looked put-upon in the extreme as he cued up the orchestra. "From the beginning of the aria then, please, mademoiselle," he said dryly. Meg stepped to center-stage, and her heart was pounding wildly but she took a deep breath and focused on recalling everything she had ever learned. Chin level, chest up, keep the ribcage loose, breathe from the _bottom_ of the lungs…

And then, when she heard the cue from the violas, she began.

"Think of me, think of me fondly,

when we've said goodbye.

Remember me once in a while -

please promise me you'll try.

When you find that, once again, you long

to take your heart back and be free -

if you ever find a moment,

spare a thought for me."

She finished the verse with a pure, lovely sound, and was left with a brilliant smile on her face as the orchestra exploded through the subsequent key change.

Meg glanced to her left and caught her mother's eye. Antoinette Giry stood amid the men and women of the ballet with an unreadable look on her face. She seemed halfway torn between shock and fury, but when Meg caught her eye, she made a visible effort to transform the look into a smile. And then the music was calling to her again and Meg had to turn away.

"We never said our love was evergreen,

or as unchanging as the sea -

but if you can still remember

stop and think of me.

Think of all the things

we've shared and seen -

don't think about the way things

might have been . . .

Think of me, think of me waking,

silent and resigned.

Imagine me, trying too hard

to put you from my mind.

Recall those days

look back on all those times,

think of the things we'll never do -

there will never be a day,

when I won't think of you!

Flowers fade,

The fruits of summer fade,

They have their seasons, so do we

but please promise me, that sometimes

you will think of me!"

The music all but poured out of her, exploding up from somewhere inside her very soul, and she was grateful, because that final two-octave jump of the cadenza was critical and incredibly difficult, the kind of wild coloratura decoration she'd always had trouble with, but today her voice was ready. Maybe _she_ was ready.

And then, after the last echoes bounced back and faded away, the people crowded around the stage burst into wild applause, and Meg was swept up in a maelstrom.

* * *

High above the crowd on the stage, a man perched in the darkness and stared down, open-mouthed, at the events taking place below. Once he had ensured that La Carlotta would not continue to assault his ears with her atrocious rendition of the most lovely aria in the piece, he had thought to sit back and watch the temper tantrum that was sure to ensue. He had very little to amuse him, and the overrated diva's meltdowns were high on that short list.

What he had not expected was for Marguerite Giry- _his_ little Meg!- to take her place. As he heard her voice soar, rising up to the heavens, rising up for _him_, he felt a stirring in his heart that he had become all too familiar with in recent months. For the hundredth time in as many days, the man who styled himself "O.G." was forced to acknowledge that his heart was well and truly lost.

* * *

**A/N-** I meant to wait until this was finished to post any more, but I've sort of hit a brick wall as far as inspiration is concerned, so I'm going to start uploading every few weeks and hope someone will leave a comment in a review that will spark something off (and by that I mean: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PLEASE REVIEW!).


	3. Interlude I

**A/N-** While this is going to follow the plot of the POTO we all know to a certain extent, the personality differences between Meg and Christine of course alter the interactions between the characters to a certain extent, and I have a pretty major twist set up for the end of Act I, but the difficulty is that if I don't set it up right it will feel arbitrary. But I think I've worked out a way to prepare it all up properly. Therefore, these "interludes" between several of the chapters, to flesh out some backstory.

* * *

_He always makes use of his particular talent for ventriloquism when teaching her, sending his voice dancing all around the room, whispering in her ear, right behind her, emanating from the corners, whispering down from the ceiling. He's not quite sure why. It's not necessary. She is not a threat to him, not like the Others. But he still does. Unfortunately, it never helps..._

_"Marguerite, you will never progress if you do not practice!" he hisses._

_His voice appears from somewhere to her left, but she still looks dead at him, which is deeply unnerving because he is very much concealed behind the wall. He wonders how she guesses._

_"How do you know whether I practice or not?" she responds with all the overconfident petulance of her youth._

_The true answer is that he's taken to watching her, not following her, necessarily, but he keeps an eye on her. If Marguerite were a little more pliable, he would tell her that. But in the two years he's been working with her, he's learned that she's more like her mother than he had reckoned on. If he tells her he is around when she doesn't know it, she'll chastise him with all her youthful "wisdom" and quite possibly tell her mother, which is the very last thing he wants. Antoinette would not be pleased to know he was in contact with her daughter. Therefore, he's going to need a better answer for her._

_"I know, Marguerite, because I can hear it in your voice whether you've made improvement or not."_

_She glances in the direction from which his voice came this time. "That's cheating. And please, Monsieur, Marguerite is much too big a name for me. I've told you before, call me Meg!"_

_He rolls his eyes. It is a frequent demand of hers, and honestly he feels that Meg is much too diminutive for someone with a personality as large as hers. Marguerite has a more musical sound to it. Still..._

_"I shall call you Meg if you will stop calling me "monsieur" and refer to me in future as your angel of music. And only," he says, feeling pleased with his cleverness (he tries to ignore the fact that he's glad to have outwitted a nine-year-old girl), "if you will promise to actually_ apply_ what I teach you!"_

_She thinks on that for a few minutes, chewing her lip thoughtfully as is her habit, before nodding brightly. "Alright then. I am Meg, you are my angel, and I promise I'll do better!"_

_A voice calls out to her from the hallway, and she suddenly looks guilty. "Oh heavens, I was meant to be at rehearsal _ages_ ago!" she cries. She whirls in her little white dress and runs for the door, blonde hair flying behind her. Once there, she pauses, turns again, and looks back at the empty dormitory. "Goodbye, angel!" she calls in her sweet little voice, and then she is gone._

_His lips twitch in what might almost be a smile._


	4. Chapter Two

**A/N-** Have I mentioned that I hate basically every stage Phantom? Gerry's technique may have been sucktastic, but his voice was actually quite beautiful (albeit untrained), he's a baritone (Erik should NEVER be sung by a tenor!), and best of all _he actually sang it bel canto_. Singing POTO in the Broadway/West End style is criminal. Michael Crawford can suck it (no disrespect, MC). This music lends itself to PROPER singing technique, and while most stage Christines do a credible job of imitating that (Sierra Borggess in particular produces the effect very nicely), you just can't compete with the real deal, and every stage Erik I've ever heard just... sucks. Beautiful tenors, of course, but NOT for this role!

* * *

_Chapter Two_

The four hours between Meg's impromptu audition and the moment the curtain rose were a whirlwind of hurried decisions and quasi-rehearsal. Piangi, although he followed his diva's lead right out of the theatre, was nowhere near as arrogant as Carlotta and had permitted the training of an understudy, so filling Hannibal's role had not been difficult. Felix didn't have the older man's technical skill, but his tenor was rich and he had a good feel for the part. They had time to run through a bit of the first act together, and his voice complimented Meg's nicely.

The moment Monsieur Reyer declared himself satisfied that the performance would not be an _utter_ disaster, Meg was swept away into the depths behind the stage. Ensconced in the domain of Madame Dupuis, the costume mistress, she was subjected to at least an hour and a half of fussing and measuring.

"Oh Lord," Mme. Dupuis moaned. "If you were but a little taller I might be able to alter Carlotta's wardrobe, but goodness you're tiny! How will we ever find something to fit?"

At that moment, a knock sounded on the door of the costume studio, and Simone poked her head in. "Meg, I need to talk to-"

"Not just now, little lady!" Mme. Dupuis said tartly. "The mademoiselle and I still have a great deal of work to do, we've no time for you just now!"

Simone cast Meg a pleading look, but Meg just shrugged apologetically. She knew only too well that the success of the production depended on her, and she couldn't go onstage without a costume!

Simone made a sour face and withdrew.

They managed to find a variation on the costumes from the grand march finale of the first act that, with some pins and a bit of magic on the part of Mme. Dupuis, would fit her. The costuming for the second act was fairly easy to do away with, as Elissa was off-stage for most of the second act, appearing only briefly in the middle. The third act, though, caused fits for the overtaxed costume mistress. It took a veritable eternity for her to wade through the items available, many left-over from previous shows and a few prepared ahead of time for the production of il Muto slated to run a few days hence, before she turned up something suitable.

The costume they ultimately decided on was a lovely work in palest imaginable cornflower blue satin and taffeta, set here and there with delicate little gems to give the whole dress a shine. Mme. Dupuis still wasn't completely satisfied, insisting on adding a larger bustle, but she promised that it would be completed before the beginning of the third act. She also drew a set of crystal-drenched hair decorations from a drawer and, with a knowing wink, set them aside for her.

Between rehearsals and the mad-cap dash of preparing the crew to work around an entirely new leading lady, Meg hardly had time to catch her breath before suddenly she was there on-stage, voice rising over the chorus.

Her head was spinning throughout the first act, too drunk on adrenaline and giddy excitement to do more than give in to the music and pray that it would carry her safely to the other side. The second act almost came to disaster during her short duet with Alexandre, the baritone singing Antiochus, whose powerful voice very nearly overwhelmed hers. Luckily, the lanky Frenchman realized her distress at attempting to keep up with him and backed off in time to prevent the song from falling into ruin, and she was able to flash him a grateful smile as she swept off the stage in a crowd of handmaidens.

Then it was time for the third act, and Hannibal's final departure from Carthage. Meg felt, as she watched Felix and Alexandre exit the stage, that it had been a success. They had saved the opera. But there was just one thing left, Elissa's final aria bidding farewell to the love she would never see again, and it was hers.

Meg stood there, alone on the stage in the blue dress, with light blazing around her and a thousand faces waiting as the orchestra swelled up, carrying her with it, opened her mouth, and _sang_. She sent her voice out across the theatre, and suddenly she understood. She knew what her teacher had always meant when he told her to own the audience, own the stage. Her voice had each and every member of the audience under a spell, and she held them all in her hands, left breathless on the edge of their seats as she prepared to launch into that cadenza, only released if _she_ chose. And for the first time in her life, Meg thought she really understood what music was meant to be.

She was no longer Meg Giry. She was transformed into Elissa, mourning the loss of the only man she had ever loved with acceptance and grace. As the last gorgeous notes rang out in her voice like a bell, she could see the spell fall, settle in each and every one of their minds and take hold, driving them to their feet in thunderous applause and a rain of roses, and she knelt in the middle of the stage, a soft, sad smile on her face, careful not to break character even now.

* * *

Meg found herself hauled offstage in a tide of jubilance and chorus girls. As she was drawn into the darkness beyond the lights of the theatre, she was surrounded by friends from the ballet congratulating her, and she noticed one of the tiny ones, a someday-ballerina only six years old with huge blue eyes clinging to her skirt. She smiled at the little girl and gently detached her, then fled to seek shelter from the pressing crowds. The music was still echoing in her head, making her very soul resonate, and she felt desperately claustrophobic with so many people eager to speak to her.

She quickly excused herself and fled to the ballet dormitories, hiding herself away in her cubby. The large bustle Mme. Dupuis had attached to her dress made it difficult to navigate the narrow hallways of the dormitories, but she managed to squeeze herself onto her bed, drawing her legs up under the voluminous skirt.

She closed her eyes and tried to breathe deeply. Good lord, her head was spinning! How had all this happened so quickly?

"Marguerite!" a brassy voice cried suddenly, interrupting her attempt at calming herself. Meg's eyes snapped open and she found herself confronted with Simone, still in her bronze handmaiden's costume and with a somewhat foul expression on her face.

Hoping to head off whatever snit her friend had worked herself into, Meg stood up with a smile on her face. "How did you find me?" she asked teasingly. "I thought I'd managed the perfect hiding place."

"You left a trail of glitter," Simone snarked. "Meg, how the _hell_ did you learn to sing like that?"

Meg bit her lip. This was her secret. Anything else in her life she would freely share with her friends, but not once had she so much as let on that the Opera Ghost was anything more to her than the amusing prankster he was to everyone else. She had never even told her mother. But then, the cat was out of the bag already, more or less.

"It was him," she said softly. "The Phantom of the Opera taught me to sing. Ever since I was a little girl, he has come to me. Every night, he seeks me out and teaches me… sometimes we talk about other things, sometimes we talk for ages, but every day it always ends in a music lesson."

Simone looked at her with one thick, dark eyebrow raised dubiously. "I'm sure it does," she said sarcastically.

"You don't believe me?" Meg asked, incredulous.

"Meg, the Opera Ghost isn't _real_," the taller girl said condescendingly.

Meg raised her chin defiantly. "Yes, he is. I've spoken to him. He's real. He's there."

"You're making it up. You would have told me before tonight if that was true!"

"Contrary to popular belief, I don't tell you _everything_, Simone. Why are you acting like this?"

"Acting like what? I'm not acting like anything!"

"Yes you are," Meg argued. "You're acting like you're mad at me, and I don't understand why!"

Simone's full lips went pale as she pursed her mouth. "Well maybe you would, if you paid attention to other people instead of acting like a stuck-up prima donna all of a sudden!"

"I'm not doing that!" Meg exclaimed. "I haven't done anything wrong except apparently prove that I'm better than you at one more thing!" Meg immediately wanted to stuff the harsh words back in her mouth, as they only seemed to prove Simone's point, but the damage was done. Simone's emerald eyes narrowed furiously.

"That's charming, Meg, really charming," she bit out. "I'll see you later." She whirled and marched away.

Meg tried to follow her, but her overbalanced dress prevented her from even moving before her slender friend had disappeared. "Simone, wait-!" she called, but in vain.

With a sigh, she sank back down on her cot, that sick feeling of air in need of clearing settling into her stomach.

She thought she knew what was wrong. Simone loved attention, and her incredible beauty had made her the focus of the ballet's spotlight. Indeed, she was even under consideration for prima ballerina (though to be perfectly honest, she didn't really have the talent for it). But having her limelight completely ripped away from her was only part of the problem. The problem was that Simone hated not knowing everything that was happening at all times. She was such a gossip, and could never stand it when someone knew something she didn't. Meg did not sing in her true voice in her friends' company, saving her full voice for her lessons. Finding out that her closest friend had kept this a secret for so long must have aggravated the jealousy that Meg couldn't really blame Simone for. No wonder she was irritated!

Well, Meg decided, she would patch things up with her later, once she'd calmed down. Simone was known for flying into rages, but they didn't last long. Well, if you didn't count her feud with Lili two years previously, which had only ended when Lili had been driven from the corps in disgrace... but that was the lone exception.

Her uncomfortable ruminations were interrupted again, this time by her mother, who appeared seemingly out of nowhere as she always did. Antoinette's expression was unreadable again, and Meg suddenly wondered whether she was entirely pleased with what had happened.

"Come," she said, taking her daughter's hand and helping her navigate her way to her feet. "Messieurs Andre and Firmin are waiting."

* * *

**A/N-** Also, have I mentioned that I _HATE_ that they cut out Raoul's lines in "Wandering Child" in almost every production I've ever heard? That short trio is the entire _reason_ I have the original cast recording on my iPod! It's _awesome_. And they never seem to do it anymore! WTF? It's IMPORTANT!

Review?


	5. Interlude II

**A/N-** This is probably an important time to mention that not all of these interludes are necessarily in consecutive order. The first one was from when Meg was 9. This one is from when she was about 6, a year and a half before Erik began teaching her. Just so we're all clear. This one is a tad confusing, but all will be explained by the end. However, for the time being, allow me to make sure you understand that Arnaud is Antoinette's husband.

* * *

_"So, _you're_ still here, then." _

_She does not phrase it as a question. Her tone is clipped and forced and cold and so, so unlike his Antoinette... _

_He drives that thought away. She hasn't been "his" Antoinette in a long, long time, and it's about time he came to terms with that. It's harder, though, when they're standing face to face for the first time in... how many years? Is it nine? It must be. __She looks older. The last time he saw her, he was sixteen and she was nineteen and glowing with love (it was his first time seeing a woman in love, he'd never seen much point in the whole business until then, but to see her so _happy_...!). She does not glow now... she glowers. Though she is only twenty-eight, she seems much older. And she is wearing black._

_"You're in mourning," he notes. "I take it the bastard is dead?"_

_She goes white. "My _son_," she murmurs, "was _not_-"_

_He feels a stab of remorse for his choice of words. "Oh. Not the bastard, then. Just his spawn."_

_Antoinette closes her eyes and sucks in a deep breath through her nose, and her posture, always perfect, goes so stiff and eerily straight it gives him a little shiver down the spine. He can still read her after all this time, and he can tell that she is furious, but she won't lash out at him. They've already done their fair share of lashing out at each other; they won't do that anymore._

_"There was an accident," she says. "Julien was killed."_

_"When?"_

_"About six months ago."_

_"I see." He nods to himself. "And you're here... why?"_

_"I have gained employment as the directrice of the corps de ballet," she informs him._

_That surprises him. He had not honestly expected that she was here for any extended length of time, not with her wonderful marriage to a charming young man and her perfect son who, regardless of the question of his date of his conception, was born with a sweet and unmarked visage. To hear that she was back... he didn't know how he felt about that. The part of him that would always worship her is screaming at him to rejoice and to welcome her home. His wounded pride and stubborn anger insists otherwise._

_"And what of the bastard?"_

_"Arnaud..." She struggles a little at this. "Arnaud will not be joining us here."_

_"I see."_

_"I will be living here in the opera house from now on. I have the corps to oversee, and when my daughter is old enough she will live in the ballet dormitories and train as I did."_

_"Your daughter?" This surprises him. He has always associated Antoinette with motherhood, but never with daughters- only sons._

_She nods. "Yes, Erik, my daughter." There is something very cold in her tone now. _

_"It is good to have family... I imagine."_

_"Yes. I have my family with me, such as it is. And Erik?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"I want you to stay away from her. I know we've had our share of bad blood between us, but I don't want all that tainting my daughter. No matter how you may feel about me... please don't take it out on her. Leave her alone."_

_He shrugs. "I see no reason I should take any interest in her."_

_In later years, he would look back on this conversation and think: Famous last words._


	6. Chapter Three

**A/N-** As promised, the next chapter! And seriously, I have major problems with the habit many productions are falling into of totally cutting out Raoul's bit of Wandering Child... that's IMPORTANT! I said it in my last A/N, but what can I say? It seriously bothers me.

* * *

_Chapter Three_

If the crowd earlier had been overwhelming to Meg, it was nothing to what was waiting for them when her mother led her out into the backstage area now. It seemed that half the wealthy opera-goers in attendance had forced their way backstage, and all of them were demanding to speak to Mademoiselle Giry. Antoinette pursed her lips and guided her quickly through the crowds to Carlotta's dressing room, forcing her inside and closing the door behind them.

She pointed to a red rose that lay on the dressing table, tied about the stem with a black satin ribbon. Meg didn't have time to contemplate the item before her mother spoke.

"He has left this for you," she said, voice very tightly controlled in a manner that Meg knew could only mean trouble. "You have a great many things to explain to me, Marguerite." Oh yes, definitely trouble. Her mother only called her by her proper name when she was furious, or being particularly formal, and the situation didn't exactly demand the latter.

"I…" She had no idea how to progress.

Luckily, she was rescued from her floundering non-attempt at an explanation by the door bursting open to reveal the beaming managers. It did not escape her notice that Antoinette slipped out discreetly at the same moment.

"Mademoiselle Giry!" Andre cried, laying the oversized bouquet he carried on what seemed the only surface in the room still free of flowers. She found she much preferred the Phantom's simple token to the extravagant blooms that had been delivered. "A stunning performance, simply delightful!"

She inclined her head in thanks, a small smile crossing her face.

"May we present to you the Vicomte de Chagny, and his fiancée, Mlle. Daae," Firmin said, stepping in front of his diminutive colleague.

The handsome young nobleman entered the room with his lady on his arm. Meg curtsied deeply, suddenly very grateful that her costume was so fine, for otherwise she should feel horribly drab in the company of such terribly wealthy, terribly well dressed people. The Vicomte's fiancée was so beautiful it was almost painful, and despite being dressed more regally than she had ever been in her life, Meg felt plain beside her. Mlle. Daae was dressed in a stunning gown in a pale shade of shamrock silk, and the color complimented her pale complexion and stunning dark eyes so well it could only have been made for her, and must have cost a fortune.

"Monsieur, Mademoiselle," Meg acknowledged shyly, dropping into a low curtsy. "It is an honor."

The Vicomte inclined his fair head, while his lovely fiancée mirrored Meg's curtsy. "The honor is all ours, Mademoiselle. As Monsieur Andre said, you have given us a most remarkable performance tonight."

"Thank you," Meg said, and she was fully aware that she was blushing.

"You are very talented," Mlle. Daae said in a sweet voice, her French colored dark by a bit of a Swedish accent.

"You are too kind, Mademoiselle," Meg responded. "Mostly I'm just lucky."

"Lucky, perhaps, but luck alone doesn't bring a particularly discerning audience to its feet," the Vicomte said, while his fiancée giggled.

Meg felt utterly out of her depth, unsure of how to proceed in conversation with such grand people. Luckily, Monsieur Firmin rescued her.

"We thought we were utterly finished when La Carlotta… became ill," he said, skirting around the issue of his diva's temperamental nature elegantly. "I think we've made quite a discovery with Mlle. Giry, don't you think?"

The Vicomte voiced his approval happily, while the dark-haired beauty on his arm made a thoughtful face.

"I always thought it must be so wonderful to perform opera," she mused. "My father was a musician, you see, and I confess I always wanted to learn to sing properly. He taught me quite a lot himself, but he was a violinist, not a singer, and there was only so much he could do..." She sighed thoughtfully, with a soft smile on her face. "Somehow we never got around to finding another teacher, so I settled for lessons on the pianoforte."

Meg smiled. "I'm sure you play beautifully, Mademoiselle."

The future countess turned a pretty shade of pink. "Please, call me Christine, won't you? The French are so formal about names and titles… I am more comfortable just being called by my given name."

Meg decided right then and there that she liked Christine Daae. "Alright then, Christine," she said, trying the name out. "In that case, I am just Meg."

Christine's already luminous smile widened. "Oh Meg, you simply _must_ come to supper with us!" she exclaimed, glancing at her fiancé for approval.

The Vicomte nodded. "We would be honored if you would join us," he said.

"I'm grateful for your invitation," Meg said, "but I'm afraid I can't. My mother should sorely miss me, and my teacher… my teacher, I fear, would not approve."

"Oh, he cannot be _that_ strict!" Christine said cajolingly.

"Who is this great tutor of yours? I should like to meet him," the Vicomte said.

Meg silently concurred.

"I should like to congratulate him on having taught you so well!" he continued.

Meg pondered how on earth to answer such a query. "He is a bit of a mystery even to me," she said slowly, preparing to invent wildly. "Monsieur Destlér… he is a terribly secretive man, but very gifted."

"Well, and he must be!" he concurred.

"Are you sure you won't join us for supper?" Christine pleaded.

"I do apologize, but I don't think it would be advisable," Meg said, feeling a little sting of regret. The Vicomte was surprisingly friendly for a man of his position, and she felt very much that she should like to get to know Christine Daae better. "Perhaps if it were a little earlier…" She shrugged apologetically.

They made a few more minutes of polite conversation before the couple withdrew, after extracting a promise of a rain check on the invitation to dine with them, and Meg was left alone with a dizzy head. She could hardly believe any of this was happening.

Suddenly she felt stifled by the heavy dress she had been wearing as armor against the sudden assault of Christine's glittering finery. She rushed to the wardrobe and searched through it. The things inside were technically the property of the opera house, but they had all been set aside for La Carlotta's personal use, and she had difficulty finding anything to fit her (and most of what did catered to the diva's gaudy tastes).

At last, though, she was able to turn up a diaphanous lavender tea gown that fit her short stature- though Meg couldn't help noticing it was unfortunately tight across the bust! For the millionth time, she cursed the grandmother she had never met, from whom, she was told, she had inherited her more than generous figure.

Satisfied at last that she was fit to be seen by whatever crowds still lingered beyond the door, she made for the exit, but a soft voice froze her in her tracks.

_"Meg… Meg… my little songbird…"_

She turned, searching as she always did for the source of the voice, though she knew as always that she would not see him. "My angel," she said with a bright smile on her face. "I wondered how long it would be before you made an appearance. It took longer than I expected."

"Are you much disappointed?"

"If your late arrival saves me from having to explain things to my mother for a little while longer, I'm actually grateful," she said teasingly.

"I do not doubt it," he said, sounding amused. After a brief pause, he continued more seriously, "You sang beautifully tonight. It was a triumph."

Meg felt herself blush. From the moment she had stepped off the stage, shedding Elissa like a snake's skin as she did so, she had been deluged in compliments, so much it had set her head spinning. But none mattered as much as his opinion, and he had never given her such a compliment. He had told her she had a good voice before, often referring to her as his songbird, but he was as sparing with his praise as her mother, perhaps even more so. The high compliment was to be treasured.

"It is all because of you," she said earnestly. After a slight pause, she asked, "Will you not show yourself?" She always asked, and he never granted her request, but she would ask nonetheless. It had become a ritual between them.

This time, though, seemed to be a night of firsts. "Look at the mirror," he said.

Meg turned to face the huge floor-to-ceiling mirror he had to be referring to, and as she did so, a light behind it flared to life, illuminating a masked face behind the glass. A two-way mirror…? She wondered how she had never noticed that before. She had thought she knew everything there was to know about this opera house, and she was certainly very familiar with the means O.G. used to navigate his domain!

Before she could marvel any further, the glass slid back and Meg unquestioningly stepped through, grasping the gloved hand extended to her.


	7. Interlude III

**A/N-** This interlude takes place when Meg is about 12 years old.

* * *

_Meg is weeping. What on earth does he do about this? Meg is _weeping_!_

_"Meg?" he whispers. "My little songbird?"_

_She looks up and glances around, her eyes even more vividly blue than usual and rimmed with red from tears. Her blonde hair whips against her neck and shoulders as she tries to find the source of his voice. He is not a nurturing man, he does not know how to care for people, but he knows sadness only too well, and would never wish it on Meg of all people. He resolves to fix it, whatever it is._

_"Angel?" she replies in a choked tone._

_"Meg, what is the matter? Why are you crying?"_

_She sniffles and rubs at her nose with the back of her wrist. "I went to visit my Papa today," she says._

_In the five years he has been teaching her, he has never heard her speak of her father as if he were still living. If she ever mentions him at all, it is to speak of him as a fond memory from her early childhood and nothing more. He has always noticed a wistfulness in her eyes when she brings him up (which is rarely), but never thought to comment on it. He has hated Arnaud Giry for too long to want to discuss the man with his wife's daughter (he can't think of Meg as Arnaud's child: the only thing she inherited from that man was her blonde hair, perhaps the only good trait the bastard possessed)._

_"Oh?" he says noncommittally._

_She nods, and a little hiccup escapes her. "Maman doesn't know," she tells him. "She can't ever know I've seen him. She would be furious."_

_Suddenly he is interested. He never thought much about the circumstances that had separated Antoinette from her husband, save to accept that something had and to be glad of it. He didn't even consider the idea that they must certainly have parted on bad terms; the idea now gives him a little jolt of gratification. Then he feels guilty, because this is obviously causing Meg some pain and he doesn't want that._

_"I thought it would be different this time," she mumbled._

_"Different from what?" he asks._

_"Different from the last time I went to see him." She sighs sadly and stares at her hands, folded in her lap. "Usually he just ignores me or tells me to go away."_

_Erik feels a compelling need to strangle the bastard. "What happened today to upset you so?" he asks, trying not to betray how much his hands are shaking from anger._

_"He told me..." Her voice quivers and fresh tears slip down her cheeks. She takes several long breaths to compose herself, then begins again: "He told me he blames me for Julien... for him dying. He shouted at me."_

_"What?" Erik is outraged. What sort of thing is that to tell a child? It is one thing for Antoinette to have chastised him- his hands had already taken a life by the time he was Meg's age. Meg, though, is innocent, the most harmless creature he has ever met._

_Meg shrugs. "I know he didn't mean it... well, he didn't mean to say it anyway. He probably did mean it. I've always known he thinks it's my fault. But it's the absinthe that makes him so hurtful. I just..."_

_"You want him to love you," Erik says. "Like he used to."_

_She does not reply._


	8. Chapter Four

**A/N-** On the subject of songs… they'll get put in (sometimes with altered lyrics) if people were LITERALLY singing (Think of Me, Music of the Night, etc) but when the songs were recitatives or metaphors for what was really going on (Phantom of the Opera, Notes, Prima Donna, etc.) I'll be replacing it with more natural dialogue.

Also, you may notice the distinct lack of a Meg version of the Christine Doll… I gave it a great deal of thought and decided that with the completely different relationship between Meg and Erik, it wouldn't really make sense. Unlike Christine, she's not some faraway idol to him, she's much more real than that, given the nature of their odd sort of friendship over the years.

* * *

_Chapter Four_

Erik felt a thrill course through him as his protégé's tiny hand slipped into his. Ten years, and this was the first time he had touched her. Wordlessly he moved deeper into the passageway behind the mirror, pulling her gently behind him, and she followed, almost as if under a spell. He had not even worked any of his hypnotic techniques on her! He had intended to, for he wasn't ready to speak just yet, not until he had shown her everything, but it appeared he had not needed to. She gazed up at him with those bright eyes, such a lovely dark blue like the sky at twilight. The soft look on her face warmed him unexpectedly.

Oh, his angel! He had not expected her to step into Carlotta's shoes after the conceited diva had walked out; no, he had just been trying to clear the way for someone, _anyone_, who wouldn't traumatize his ears with her bellowing. The fact that it had been Meg who had found it in her to fill the vacancy pleased him beyond words. When he had heard that voice like a bell ringing out in the theatre above, he could hardly believe it… his little songbird, spreading her wings at last.

How long had it been, he wondered, since the affection of a teacher turned to more _tender_ feelings? He could not point to any one moment, any word from her that had set it off, and looking back now it seemed as though he had _always_ felt so, though he knew that could not be. In fact he knew the shift in his feelings was quite recent, sometime in the last few months. He knew that her never-ending stream of questions used to annoy him to the point that, when she was nine, he almost gave up visiting her in his exasperation. Now, however, he couldn't imagine his life without days spent pouring through his collection of books, trying to find just the right answers for her.

Once upon a time, he had almost passed over her because hers wasn't the voice for the music he was writing. Sometime in the interim, though, he had found himself writing music for her voice instead, an endless series of arias for mezzo-soprano, precious duets for mezzo and baritone, and most important of all, the opera he had devoted his life to. It was a masterpiece he had begun shortly after meeting her, and which somehow became a vehicle specifically for her lovely voice. Oh, there were roles for sopranos in his work, but he had flouted convention and written the starring role for a lower range, for that sweet voice that haunted him. It had struck him all over again when he had heard her sing tonight; she was _not_ the little girl he began teaching so long ago. She was so much more.

The connection they shared was a thing to be cherished. She alone understood his loneliness, and through all the years of their acquaintance she had stood by him. Once, he had thought Antoinette had taught him what friendship meant, but he had been wrong. Meg was the only true friend he'd ever had, and Erik both feared and anticipated the storm of feelings she unwittingly provoked in him. He was bewitched. The loss of control should have frightened him beyond reason, but instead he gloried in the sensation of falling in love. Yes, _love_. For so long- most of his life, in fact- he had thought himself incapable of loving or being loved. But Meg…

Erik was a master wordsmith, but even he could not find the words to explain how he felt. It was an emotion beyond expressing in mere words. Only his music served, and he had a song just for her.

Meg remained silent as he led her down a winding staircase and through a series of twisting corridors until they reached an underground lake. There an elaborately painted black and gold gondola awaited them, and he handed her into it as a gentleman would. Meg's skin tingled where his black-gloved hand had touched her.

In silence, they pushed off from the shore, and in silence he poled the little boat across the eerily still water. Why speak? It wasn't necessary. They understood one another. Meg reached her hand over the side to play with the mist that hung over the surface of the water, causing it to whirl up into strange shapes. She glanced up at him, and he was watching her with an unreadable expression on his face. She quickly looked away again. It had not escaped her notice that her "angel" was rather handsome beneath that half-mask he wore, and his intense green-eyed gaze was doing worrying things to her stomach. His mere presence was intoxicating, and Meg wasn't sure if that was good or bad at the moment.

A part of her felt that perhaps she shouldn't go with him. Maman would wonder where she had gone, as would Simone once her anger faded. But that was a very small part of her, and she quickly abandoned that line of thinking the next time he trapped her in his eyes. Nearly all her life he had been there, and she would not abandon the opportunity to really get to know the man behind the mind at last!

After several minutes of gliding across the still surface of the water, they rounded a bend and emerged into a large cavern, lit by the soft warm glow of thousands of candles. Meg stared around in amazement as she finally understood- he didn't just haunt the opera house for sport, he _lived_ down here! She shivered at the thought; although he had obviously put a great deal of work into making this place comfortable, she couldn't imagine it being a particularly nice place to live.

He stepped out of the boat and removed his cape with a flourish that had Meg's stomach doing funny things unexpectedly. Before he could return to help her out, she made to step from the gondola herself, a little unsteadily as the rocking motion beneath her feet destabilized her usually perfect balance. As she wobbled precariously, he reached out a hand for hers and kept her from losing her footing. She shot him a nervous smile, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the sensations the contact between them was causing.

Only once she was safely on dry land did they speak. "Meg, for so many years I've shaped your voice, trying to prepare you, to create a voice that was perfect, for my music," he said, holding her gaze steadily. Despite the fear that he would read something she wasn't ready yet to give away in her eyes, she forced herself to meet his look with equal assurance.

"I've written so much music for you, Meg," he told her, and his eyes and his voice were strangely pleading. She wasn't quite sure what it was he was asking, but that tiny current of desperation she sensed beneath the seemingly innocuous statement made her hope she had the answer for him. A voice at the back of her mind told her she was being ridiculous, but she didn't care. There were some things worth being ridiculous for.

He seemed to be unable to find the right words to explain what he was trying to say, and he fell back on a technique she had known him to use hundreds, maybe thousands of times over the course of their acquaintance. When words failed him, he used music to explain what he was feeling.

_Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation,  
Darkness stirs and wakes imagination.  
__Silently the senses abandon their defenses…_

Meg felt her breathing slow and her heartbeat accelerate. His voice was so heartbreakingly beautiful, and as always when he sang she fell under his spell. Somehow he was able to weave magic with his voice in a way no singer she'd ever heard could do, and it undid her every time. She felt this was dangerous- this ability he had to dissolve her will and melt her senses- but she couldn't bring herself to care as his voice rose in the next verse.

_Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor,  
__Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender.  
__Turn your face away from the garish light of day  
__Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light  
__And listen to the music of the night._

As he sang, he took her left hand in his and pulled her deeper into his realm. Meg went willingly after him, unable to do anything but follow anywhere he chose to lead her. She had always been strong-willed (too much, her mother said, for no man would want such a stubborn wife), but his voice made all that power drain away. Her eyes were fixed on his as he led her onward.

_Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams  
__Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before!  
__Close your eyes- let your spirit start to soar,  
__And you'll live as you've never lived before._

Meg was all too willing to do anything he asked. Her lack of self-control should have terrified her, but as his voice reached up into the higher octave with a sound so pure and beautiful she nearly cried, the heat that spread through her entire body wiped away any worries she could have had.

_Softly, deftly, music shall caress you  
__Hear it, feel it secretly possess you.  
__Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind.  
__In this darkness that you know you cannot fight,  
__The darkness of the music of the night._

As he sang the tantalizing words that sent Meg's head spinning and her heart racing, she realized quite suddenly that this was a love ballad. Although the language was circumspect, there was no question that this was a song meant to win a woman's heart. The shy smile he offered her as he finished the verse only confirmed it. Meg wondered vaguely if he loved her.

Through the sensual haze his voice had set in her mind, she decided she didn't mind if he did.

_Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world  
__Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before!  
__Let your soul take you where you long to be!  
__Only then can you belong to me._

His voice dropped from a powerful, overwhelming crescendo in the top range down to the softest pianissimo whisper that she could practically feel shiver in the air around her, and he approached her as the last notes of the line faded.

Meg _was_ afraid now, but not of him. She was afraid of herself, because he was having a wholly unsettling effect on her. That wasn't unusual, really, but it was one thing to have his voice undo her and his conversation leaving her feeling giddy, but to see him, to have his hands on her arms, even through layers of fabric, was a new experience to her. She was frightened of what she might do if she kept looking into his eyes, and so she turned from him. She let him keep his hands on her body, because it felt so good to have him touch her, but she knew she would act rashly if she continued to stand facing him. There was heat in this moment, and she was terrified that both of them would burst into flames if she reacted even slightly to the enchantment he had set on her.

_Floating, falling, sweet intoxication  
__Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation,_

He sang gently next to her ear, and Meg felt her stomach turn over and her heart squeeze in her chest. Goosebumps followed the path his hands traced across her arm and torso, but she kept herself carefully turned away from him.

_Let the dream begin!  
__Let your darker side give in  
__To the power of the music that I write_

And now she had caught the melody (or perhaps it had caught her) and she couldn't help but turn to him at last to join him in the next line.

_The power of the music of the night._

Their voices melded sweetly in the darkness.

* * *

**A/N-** I'm getting near to the end of what I have already written for this fic. Really, this is pretty much the last prepared chapter, because it was after this that I got stuck. I think my head's gotten unclogged on this story finally, but from here on out it's probably going to be pretty slow on this story. I apologize for that, but bear with me. Reviews, of course, always help.


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